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Parody 
so much as 


will only strike at what is chimerical and false ; it is not a piece of buffoonery 
i critical exposition. 

D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature. 






, 



Pf?4«*? 7 



bfe 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Abel Rgtd, in tin- Office of tilt 
Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



S. W. Green, 

Printer and Electrotyper, 

16 & 18 Jacob St., 

New- York. 



POT-POURRI 



THE RUINED PALACE 

DREAM-MERE 

ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS 

THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY 

HULLALOO 

TO ANY 

HANNIBAL LEIGH 

RAVING 

THE MONSTER MAGGOT 

POETIC FRAGMENTS 

UNDER-LINES 



THE RUINED PALACE 

In a green depth, like a chalice, 

By most sweet flowers tenanted, 
Stood a fair and stately palace. 

There a poet soul — now dead — 
Lived in days in vain lamented, — 

Had lived to-day, 
But was wayward — or demented, 

Weak or worse, — who dares to say ? 

For his thought was streak'd with fancies, 

To all simple truth untrue : 
Bizarre as the hues of pansies, — 

The dark shades he knew. 



And he wander'd from this Aidenn : 

Wander'd, and was lost, alas ! 
Though his own beloved maiden 

Track'd his footsteps through the grass. 

He return'd not. Devastation 

Housed in his disorder'd rooms ; 
On his couch lay Desolation ; 

Vampyres flitted through the glooms. 
By the pure white Parian fountains 

Lounged the Ghouls obscenely Ipare : 
Never wind came from the mountains 

To refresh the stagnant air. 

O'er the garden walks neglected 

Crawl'd the toad, the worm, the snail ; 
Droop'd the young buds unrespected : 

Loving care could not avail. 
For the poet soul, the master, 

Could alone that place 
Make beautiful and from disaster 

Free — as Aidenn — by God's grace. 

When]he the palace left, and garden, — 
The moment that he would depart 



Speech is vain. And tears but harden 
On the world's ice heart. 

* 



DREAM-MERE 

On a root, knobb'd, gnarl'd, and lonely. 
Overstuck with toadstools only, 
Sits an Eidolon named Night, — 
On a toadstool half upright. 
I have seen this sprite but newly, 
And J look'd at him quite throughly, 
In his ultimate dim Thule, 
As he sate there half upright, 
In a wild weird clime, and singing sublime, 
Out of tune — out of time. 

Bottomless hollows and roaring floods, 
And caves and chasms and haunted woods, 
Forms that no man can discover 
For the dews that drip all over ; 
Mountains toppling evermore 
Into seas without a shore ; 
Shoreless seas that still aspire, 
Surging to hellish heavens of fire ; 
Boundless lakes all lone and dead, 
Where sometimes Night lies outspread 
In the waters still and chilly, 
With his nose in a lolling lily. 

By these shoreless lakes outspread, 
These lone waters, lone and dead, 
These lone waters, still and chilly 
(Night's nose in the lolling lily); 
By these toppling crags, — no river 
Murmurs near, no leaflets quiver, 



All so dark and dead and chilly ; 
By these dank woods, by the swamp 
Where the toad and bull-frog romp ; — 
By these dismal tarns, by the holes 

Where dwell the Ghouls — 

Poor damp souls ! 
By each corner most unjolly, 
By each crevice melancholy, 
By my own poetic folly — 
Frenzy of poetic drift, 
In an unexpected rift, 
There, I swear, I met aghast 
In a sheet the unmemoried Past, 
In a shroud a Ghost whose eye 
Looking into vacancy 
Made me shudder, start, and sigh, — 
One forgotten, from thought outdriven, 
I know not whether on Earth or in Heaven. 



For the heart whose woes are legion 

Tis a peaceful, soothing region — 

This same desert drear of Night, 

Where the Eidolon sits upright 

On his toadstool, or outspread 

Lies lolling on his lily-bed, — 

For the spirit that likes a shadow 

Tis, O 'tis an Eldorado, — 

Though the traveler, traveling through it, 

Ever fails to interview it 

(No one ever openly knew it), 

For its mysteries all are closed 

By the darkness superposed 



Of the Eidolon, who, I wee*n, 
Wills not the formless should be seen : 
And thus the sad soul that here passes 
Is like a blind ass without glasses. 

On his root, knobb'd, gnarl'd, and lonely 
Overstuck with toadstools only, 
Squats the Eidolon named Night, 
Squats in sad poetic plight. 
Is there more, and would you know it, 
Fix the headgear of the Poet, 
Wandering God knows where, but newly 
From this ultimate dim Thule. 



ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS 

The Angel Israfel whose heartstrings are a fiddle. 

In heaven a Spirit doth dwell 
Whose heartstrings are a fiddle 

(The reason he sings so well — 

This fiddler Israfel), 

And the giddy stars (will any one tell 

Why giddy ?) to attend his spell 
Cease their hymns in the middle. 

On the height of her go 
Totters the Moon and blushes 
As the song of that fiddle rushes 

Across her bow. 

The red Lightning stands to listen ; 

And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten 

As each of the seven puts its fist in 

Its eyes, for the mist in. 



s 



And they say — it's a riddle — 
That all these listening things, 

That stop in the middle 

For the heart-strung riddle 
With which the Spirit sings, 

Are held as on a griddle 
By these unusual strings. 

Wherefore thou art not wrong, 
Israfel ! in that thou boastest 

Fiddlestrings uncommon strong : 

To thee the fiddle-strings belong 
With which thou toastest 

Other hearts, as on a prong. 

Yes ! heaven is thine : but this 
Is a world of sours and sweets, — 
Where cold meats are cold meats, 

And the eater's most perfect bliss 
Is the shadow of him who treats. 



As Israfiddle 

Has griddled, — he fiddle as I, — 
He might not fiddle so wild a riddle 

As this mad melody, 
While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle 

Hearing my griddle-cry. 



THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY 

Hear the story of the Ghouls ! 
Who will tell us of the Ghouls? 

Who has been told ? 
Of the Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls — 
Who are neither man nor woman, 
Who are neither beast nor human, 
Who are neither fish nor cayman, — 
Who will tell us, clerk or layman ? 
They are- Ghouls : 
Live in holes 
Like moles 
Under the boles, boles, boles 
Of old trees where the forest rolls 
Of the mouldy days of old ; 
Or in tarns, tarns, tarns 
Dull and dismal as the yarns 

Of morbific spools, — 
Dank tarns and dismal pools. 
There dwell the Ghouls, 
With other tarn'd fowls, — 
Not to say fools. 

But the high tarn nation place is 

The dank tarn of Auber 
In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
There they sit with their faces 
Bow'd down to their knees, 
At the feet of dead trees, 
With the dew dropping down from their hair, 
They sit there from the end of October 
To the end of the winter next year. 



IO 



These are woodlandish Ghouls, 
Damp, desolate souls 
Who have nothing to do 
But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber 

Through the mildewest part of the year, 
That begins at the end of October 

In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir. 

Yes ! these are the woodlandish Ghouls — 

Ghouls — Ghouls — Ghouls 
With no business kind of controls — 

Mere shoals. 
But busier, — ah! much busier polls 
Have the Churchyard Ghouls, 
Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls ; 

And who after supper 

Take an upper 
Climb to their goal in the steeple : 
Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill 
On the people undergone : 

Sitting cheeks by jowls. 
Now and then they roll a stone, 
Having set the bells a-tolling 

In a muffled monotone, 

On the people undergone. 
And their King it is who tolls, 

As he lolls, lolls, lolls 
On his throne all carved with scrolls 

In his palace in the steeple, 

Where he lolls among his people : 
Ah ! his people who roll stones, 
In muffled monotones, 

On the hearts o' the underfolk, 



1 1 



Jn the dead of night awoke 
By the melancholy yells, 
By the miserable howls, 
To say nothing of the growls, 

Of these Ghouls, 
Of these tollers of the bells, 
As they toll, toll, toll ; 
Toll; 
Toll; 
Toll 
A paean from the bells : 
And the merry bosom swells 
Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls, 
As he dances and he yells 
To the throbbing of the bells 
As they toll, 

Toll, 
Toll. 

It is so the poet tells 
Who has heard these ghoulish bells; 
And whose rheumy running rhyme, 
Bowl'd in time, time, time, 
With the throbbing and the sobbing 
And the bobbing and hobnobbing 
And sense-robbing of the bells, 
Could alone expound their yells, 
For the clamor each expels, 
From the loud full-hammer'd tone, 
Sometime hoarsening to a groan, 
Sometime worsening to a moan, 

Till one bell tolls out alone 

In a muffled monotone 



12 



Between murmuring and moan, — 
Till the King loll'd there, as shown, 
On his scroll-becarven throne, 
Grown weary of the yells 
And the bowling of the bells 
(Well ! well !— to be so bold) 
As they moan and groan and yell 
Pell-mell, 
Would be fain to be unthroned, 
For the pain too wholly own'd, 
Untold but wholly known, 

(Toll de roll!) 
Of the moans, groans, yells. 
As they shake the steeple stone 
And awake the undergone 

(Rest his soul !) 
With the tolling of their knells, 
Roll'd like blood-drops from heart-wells, 

Misereres out of cells, 
Or weird witch-moulded spells 
Under fells : 
The bells, bells, bells, 
Whose tolling ever tells 
Of Ghouls, of hells, of knells, 
Told by bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells, 
The unholy yelling, knelling, wholly sense-dispellin| 
Moaning, groaning, all-atoning, 
Rolling tolling of the bells, 
Bells, 

Bells. 



■3 



HULLALOO 

The eves were as grey as grey embers, 
The leaves dirty yellow and sere,— 
They were yellow, but dusky and sere ; 

That eve was the worst of November's, — 
And they are the worst of the year. 

'Twas an eve that one surely remembers, 
Being out in the dusk with my dear : 

For the fire was gone out to weak embers ; 
So I went out too, with my dear. 

Hear then ! — Through an alley Satanic 
Of hemlock, I roam'd with my love, — 
Of hemlock with Sarah, my love. 

O my passion was quite oceanic, 

With waves like the wind in a grove, 
When the wind maketh waves in a grove 

And the leaves with a sort of a panic 
Seem taken ; I thought of the stove 

And, shivering, as if with a panic 
Was taken, at thought of the stove. 

Our talk at the first had been jolly, 

But our words soon were slow as our walk, 
Our young memories scarcely could walk ; 

Then we thought it was right melancholy 
To be out in the dark without talk — 
For we knew that we came out to talk ; 

Still we felt in our hearts it was folly 
The vast dream of silence to baulk, 

Till, whispering at last, I said — Golly ! 
And Sarah back whisper'd me — Lawk ! 



And now as the night was senescent, 

And some roosters were hinting of morn, — 
Foolish roosters then hinting of morn ! — 

As the night grew more old and unpleasant, 
We saw in the distance a horn 

Out of which a miraculous crescent 

To the sides of the road was outborne ; 

'Twas Sal's father's horn lanthorn there present, 
The crescent distinct from the horn. 

And I said — He is better than Dian ; 

But I wish that his light had more size,— 

And the light wasn't much for its size; 
He has guess'd — that's a thing to rely on — 

Has father, the way our walk lies, 
And he has come out like Orion, 

The fellow up there in the skies, — 

Yes, Sally ! those stars in the skies, — 
Come out like another Orion 

To help me take care of my prize, 
To take her safe home bye and bye on 

The pathway that fatherward lies. 

But Sarah, uplifting her finger, 
Said — Surely that light I mistrust, — 
That lanthorn 1 strangely mistrust ; 

O hasten ! O let us not linger ! 
O fly ! let us fly ! for we must. 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
Voice, — O he'll make such a dust ! 

In anguish she sobb'd, letting sink her 
Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust, — 
O but father'll kick up such a dust ! 



I replied — this is nothing but dreaming ; 
We need but keep out of the light, — 
But he kept dodging us with the light ; 

And Sarah would soon have been screaming, — 
She shook like a leaf with affright, 
Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright; 

So I lifted her out of the gleaming 
Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight : 

And her father went on, never deeming 
He left us behind in the night. 

Then to pacify Sarah I kiss'd her, 

And soon took her out of the gloom, — 

It was getting quite cold in the gloom, 
And she cried ; but I said — Dear ! desist or 

I never shall get you safe home. 

Then we ran and in good time got home. 
Father said — How on airth have I miss'd her? 

She said — I was never from home. 

No, Pa ! I was never from home. 

I have been all the night in my room. 

Now my head is as grey as an ember ; 
And my heart is all crisped and sere, — 
Like a crisp leaf that's wither'd and sere ; 

And yet I am fain to remember 
Above all the nights in the year — 
Ah, Sally ! if you were but here — 
That night of all nights in the year — 
Ah, Sally ! if you were but here — 

That cold dreamy night of November, 
That night of all nights in the year, 

That long ago night of November, — 
The night we were out in, my dear! 



[6 



TO ANY 

Thank heaven ! the crisis 

Of hunger is past ; 
And you can't guess how nice is 

This little breakfast, 
Now the thing call'd good Giving 

Is come to at last. 

1 eat what I love 

And recover my strength ; 
And my jaws only move 

As I lie at full length. 
I might sit — but I feel 

I am better at length. 

And I lie so composedly, 

Feeding and fed, 
A careless beholder 

Might fancy me dead : 
Not seeing my jaws work 

Might fancy me dead. 

The grunting and groaning, 
The writhing and raving, 

Are quieted now, 

With that horrible craving 

At stomach — that horrible 
Stomachic craving. 

The sickness, the faintness, 

The emptiness-pain, 
Have ceased ; and my stomach's 

A stomach again, 



And feels like a stomach 
Not living in vain. 

And oh ! of all tortures 
That torture the worst 

Has abated, — the terrible 
Torture of thirst 
•For a napthaline river 
Or fusil lake burst : 

I'd have drunk dirty waler, 

For quenching that thirst, 

Of a puddle that flows 

With a smell and no sound 

From a hole but a very few 
Feet underground, 

Though I holded my nose 
As I stoop'd to the ground. 

And ah ! let it never 

Be foolishly said 
That this my mahogany 

Is not well spread : 
With such victual before me 

I call it a spread ; 
And such drink — my cosmogony 

Knows nought instead. 

My tantalized spirit 
Here blandly reposes : 

The upsetting or ever 

'Twas wetting one's nose is 

All over. Sweet spirit ! 
Thy acent in my nose is. 



And now while so pleasantly 

Curl'd up it fancies 
A fragranter odour 

Than rue has, or pansies. 
Or even than rosemary 

Mingled with pansies, - 
The beautiful bourbon 

The Puritan fancies. 

And so I lie happily, 

Drinking a many 
And eating a few. 

It will cost a big penny. 
I don't mind the cost: 

For I have not a penny. 



HANNIBAL LEIGH 

It was many and many a year ago — 

It seems so long to me — 
That there lived in a city which you may know 

A man named Hannibal Leigh ; 
And this man he seem'd to have nothing to do 

But to drink and get drunk with me. . 

I was a fool and he was a fool, 

In this city by the sea : 
For we drank and got drunk till we made it a rule 

That neither should drunker be ; 
And we drank till we might have lesson'd a school 

Of fishes, such drinkers were we. 



l 9 

And this was the reason that long ago 

In this city by the sea 
A fusilier spirit of ill distilling 

Destroy'd my Hannibal Leigh. 
'Tvvas a spirit of ill when my pal was willing 

To drink for ever with me ; 
And some were saying — it was fulfilling 

A kind o' warning to me. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying him and me, — 
Yes ! that was the reason, whatever was given 

In that city by the sea, 
Why the fusilier spirit came out a-killing 

My still-swilling Hannibal Leigh. 

But I drink all the longer and drink it more strong, 
For the two, foi I drink like three, — 
For myself once and twice for Leigh ; 

And no fusil here nor in heaven along 
Nor spirit down under the sea 

Shall ever dissever our drinks to do wrong 
To the spirit of Hannibal Leigh. 

For whenever I drink I endeavor to think 

I am drinking with Hannibal Leigh ; 
And my hand never raise but to drink to the praise 

Of my drink-Kaiser Llannibal Leigh ; 
And in all the night tide I hold on to the side 
Of the counter, the counter where Hannibal died ; 

And I think that I llannibal see 

And I'm Hannibal Hannibal's me. 



20 



RAVING 

Once upon a midnight, weary, 
As I maunder'd, gin-and-beery, 
O'er an' oft repeated story 

Till my friends thought me a bore, — 
Sitting weeping, and half sleeping, 
Something set my flesh a-creeping, 
And I saw a Raven peeping 

Through my room's unopen'd door. 
See that Raven ! said I to them, — 

Trying to get through the door, — 

A black Raven — nothing more. 

Now I was not drunk, but weary, 
For my head was out-of-geary 
With close ,study of quaint volumes 

Curious in forgotten lore : 
(Though they said Delirium tremens) 
I'd been reading bits of Hemans, 
And some leaves of Jacob Behmen's, 

Two or three — perhaps a score : . 
And I said — It is a Raven 

Rampant just outside the door,— 

Striding through — I said — and swore. 

I insisted, and I twisted 

And resisted, and persisted 

Though they held me and, close-fisted, 

Saw no Raven at the door ; 
I forgot all I had read of, — 
For that ill bird took my head off, 



2 1 



Like a coffin lid of lead oft 
The dead brain of one no more. 

Would I trust their words instead of 
What I saw right through the door? 
Through the door — I said — and swore. 

Yes ! it is a Raven surely, 
Though he does look so demurety 
Like a doctor come to assure me 

I am drunk : not so — I swore, 
Drunk? I drunk? I've not been drinking; 
I'm but overcome with thinking : 
There I saw that Raven winking 

In the middle of the floor. 
Doctor ! there's the Raven rampant 

In the middle of the floor: 

He has hopp'd straight through the door. 

Look ! his curst' wings brush the dust oft 
That fallen, broken, batter'd bust of 
Psyche, — where it lies in the shadow, 

Shatter'd, flung down on the floor. 
See ! he spurns the broken pieces. 
Catch him, Doctor ! — when he ceases 
He will rend me. Past release is 

Nothing! Nothing on the floor? — 
Yes ! the Psyche lies in the shadow, 

Lieth shatter'd on the floor : 

To be lifted nevermore. 



22 



THE MONSTER MAGGOT 

A Poet ! — With never a single theme 

Of glory or delight, 
He folds his wings for a gloomy dream 

Of Death despair-bedight ; 
And, willing not that Beauty use 

His wilderness of soul, 
He chooseth for his daintier muse 

Raven or Ghoul. 

And now a " Conqueror Worm " he sings, — 

A blood-red crawling shape, 
Invisible woe from its condor wings 

Out-flapping, all agape ; 
While angels bewing'd, bedight in veils, 

Watch mumubling mimes, with tears, 
In a play where a maniac Horror wails 

To the music of the spheres. 

The play is the play of Human Woes, 

Of Madness, Sin, and Death : 
There is nothing else the Poet knows 

God's azure sky beneath 
But Madness, Horror, and Sin, 

Death and Sorrow, and Wrong : 
Even so doth the Singer begin, 
*So ends his Song. 

"It writhes" — the Worm, — "with mortal pangs 

" The mimes become its food ; 
" And the angels sob at vermin fangs 

" In human gore imbued," — 



2 3 



This monster terrible, formless, huge, 
Means — put in plainest terms: 

Our Poet needs a vermifuge. 
The child's disease is worms. 



POETIC FRAGMENTS 

PART OF AN UNFINISHED GHOUL-POEM — 

Said we then — the two, then — Ah ! can it 
Have been that the woodlandish Ghouls — 
The pitiful, the merciful Ghouls — 
To bar up our way and to ban it 

From the secret that lies in these wolds — 
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds- 
Have drawn up the spectre of a planet 

From the limbo of lunary souls — 
This sinfully scintillant planet 

From the hell of the planetary souls ? 



POT-POURRI — 



"A ROSEMARY odour 

" Commingled with pansies — 

" With rue'' :— 

Your poet has fancies : 

But methinks such an odour 

Were odious to more than a few. 



2 4 



UNDER-LINES 

On a Poet's Tomb. 

Tomb'd in dishonor! Not like thine own Ghoul 

Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One ! 

For critical devouring; but some words 

Writ heedlessly above thee call for words 

Of answering rebuke. If Israfel 

In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre — 

The only organ of harmonious worth — 

Shall not earth's poet? And if he be weak, 

Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire, 

Untunable, rejoicing not in good, 

Can aught but discord issue ? Speech absurd 

Of " art for art's sake ! " when art is not art 

Out of the circles of the universe, 

Out of the song of the eternities, 

Or unfit to attend the ear of God. 

My mocking words aim at, not thee, but those 
Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth. 






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